Petition for A Perpetual Motion Machine


It has been many
years, I am older
they say wiser but
I do not have the
answer to the question of
the day, just
propositions, casual
observations, listening
to the mystery of the
earth, then smiling
amused, that the
earth still turns under
such weight you
know one shouldn’t
really care anymore as
one gets older, but
I go on, I obsess, I
probe, I hold the
oldest mysteries of the
earth in my hands and
I entertain all of its
illusions, refractions, rotations
testing the limits of
my mind

what is art but the destruction of time for the appreciation of beauty? time distilled in these – words, sounds, images, forms, rituals – all the incarnation of divinity unto death, a continuum within the universe, and thus these never suffice, never suffice to build that perpetual motion machine in my mind, oh mesmer me a space, a motion so discrete, oh break me the symmetry of time, reset the impossibilities of this world, but never answer, never tell, just smile when you set in motion the wings of a butterfly for eternity

Fatima Lasay, Quezon City
Tuesday, September 30, 2014

Spoken To The Colonies


I do it in
the night upon
bedtime, in the
quiet, my
hands lay
upon my womb, thereafter
my breasts, I know where
they lie, I can feel
they throb, they
squirm, they
pop, and there
is pain at times, so
I do it in
the night upon
bedtime, in
the heat of my
hands I speak
to them and
they listen
intently, for my
blood is
their blood, my
life is their

they are colonies rather large, rather complex, of bodies within the body, and each of them have a mind of their own, fired and firing across finite lines of communication, and whenever my mind is in agony they throb, they squirm they pop, desperate to stay alive, but now please, please listen, yes, listen, I have been wrong, I have been careless, I have underestimated our dependencies, but it is not too late, this body will not fall apart in the revolution, there will be no revolution, and there is time enough to contemplate each cellular complexity, to appreciate their lines, their shapes, their lives, their birth and death, because none of us will be immortal, there will be no immortal cells, we are all going to live and die.

Fatima Lasay, Quezon City
Monday, September 29, 2014

Meditation Before A Fire


My soul, my very
tired soul, you
are restless, you are
angry, the
to and fro of
your anger, my
soul, it is like the
sudden death of a
sprig, the
blistering of stones
against the might of
the waves, anger
like meat burning in
the pot, a sudden
change in religion
from kindness to
too quick, too
much, too
angry, my

the lines in my mind are horizontal, they are at rest, between them are dabs in baby colours of blue, pink and green, like the garden in the early morning after the rain in the night, and in my mind I could hear the humming of the cups made of brass and I remember where I had seen them before, many years ago, and this is when my soul stops to see what is in my mind, to listen to the singing of the cups, to sit still and forget its anger amidst the peace of its observation.

Fatima Lasay, Quezon City
Sunday, September 28, 2014

The Cloud


it was time to get a new notebook computer, I thought
it was ten in the morning the Power Mac Center looked desolate
but I always loved their minimalist interiors
sterile, like a bleeding edge hospital
I scanned the shop for the notebooks and found them
a row of MacBook Pro and MacBook Air lovely
and I already knew what I wanted so it didn’t take long
the MacBook Pro 13, I lifted it to test the weight
a pallid young man walked towards me and smiled
it was quick and easy, he answered my questions
okay, I said, I’ll get this one
at the cashier it took a while, the girls were sleepy
then the young man appeared again
he asked me to join him for a bit of orientation
it was a small room at the end of the shop
he took out the MacBook and started it up
began the registration process into something
called The Cloud
it was quick and easy, and
I was home by eleven
since then people had wondered about the
cadaverous look on my face, and I felt
alive only when I was using my computer
it was several weeks later that I realised
what happened
the young man was stern and methodical, took my hand,
tied a piece of rubber around my upper arm and
palpitated my vein, jabbed the needle and drew blood
then emptied the syringe into a plastic hose
attached to the notebook computer
into The Cloud
what happened?


Fatima Lasay, Quezon City
Thursday, September 25, 2014

The Wireless Pig


Her manner was most beguiling

this woman who, by her appearance
could not possibly have access to technology like ours
clothes she had woven from bark and fibre
shoes donated for flood victims

busy texting on my iPhone
she caught my attention she started talking
about the man getting on the boat she spoke
slowly, visibly disturbed, despondent
a porky-looking man walking towards the boat
she said that man promised to make her a wife
but had broken that promise
he is now getting on the boat to Cebu

I slaughtered a pig for this

she had a sack
brought out a piece of meat
perhaps a kilo or two
her lips trembled, tears began to fall from her eyes
she said she will punish the man
she drew out a small knife and plunged it into the meat
and came the frightening cry

I have only heard of this magic, this technology

the woman explained that she can’t hurt the man if he had gotten in the boat, and the meat – as a transducer – needs to be fresh and warm

she plunged the knife again and the man cried out

she continued to explain that the day is perfect for his punishment because the light is beautifully modulated

indeed, it was a remarkably clear day
the sunlight sparkled on the surface of the sea
sparkled on the face of the man twisting himself in pain

for the last time
the woman plunged the knife into the meat
the wail of the man echoed through the island
a scuffle as people came to help
it is enough, the woman sobbed
put the meat and the knife away
I slaughtered a pig for this, she said proudly
and walked home


Fatima Lasay, Quezon City
Wednesday, September 24, 2014



Running away does me good even if the pains and desires remain, it keeps me occupied, busy, folding and unfolding this dress, getting haircuts in different places, the many ways my skin responds to soft water here and hard water elsewhere, the scent of laundry, of sheets, of different beds, the visibility of the stars and the sounds of the rain, and there is hope, I feel, whenever I tell a lie, to the real estate broker, to the corporate lackey, to the cable TV housewife, to the preening salesman, the philandering priest, the faux pariah, the office jester and the cubicle beauty, to the plagiary poet who spreads all my lies, these little pieces of lies left in all the little places where I have been, these give me the strange satisfaction of witnessing their conjugations of my story, of reality, as if they knew where I was coming from, as if they understood where I was going, as if they could do anything for me, as if reality was the trophy won at the end of their tedious lives, and so everytime I run away I tell a lie, and it breaks your heart, my love, it pains you though I can never speak truth for you or your love because those too are such lies, such deceptions in their details and intensities, so I run away and leave pieces of things, of stories and interpretations, of parables and propaganda, models and simulations, translations of this morbid fear of slipping away in your embrace, that just as when we have found each other I would die and you would not notice because you were sleeping and the night had taken me away, oh why didn’t you see, why didn’t you keep watch, why did you let me go, disappear into the mist of despair, and now only the mythology of my madness haunts you, it comes to you in the night before you sleep, it comes to you in the morning before breakfast, and reluctantly you follow the trail of lies, you are weary but the lies remain most tempting, most intriguing, sometimes days pass without recur, without desire, but still you need to see, you need to know, you need, what else, but some form of proof that I have died, that because you cannot have me I am truly gone, and that the universe is again in symmetry, like the balancing act of your remaining days, each day churning out my words and arrangements and rearrangements of words, yes, lies and more lies, such beautiful perfect lies, and my feet will never wear out, this dress will continue to fold and unfold, and the water, the beds, the stars and the rain … I will run away, my love, run away until you die.

Fatima Lasay, Quezon City
Tuesday, September 23, 2014

When I grew up, and fell in love


When I grew up, and fell in love
I asked my sweetheart, “What lies ahead?
Will we have rainbows, day after day?”
Here’s what my sweetheart said

“Que Será, Será” (1956) Livingston, Jay / Evans, Ray

MANILA – An unidentified woman was found dead in an apartment Thursday with a stuffed dog wrapped tightly around her neck. The body, police reports say, was just a few minutes dead when it was discovered by security personnel responding to a break-in by stray cats in the area.

Nearby residents claim a British national called “Tibor” stayed in the apartment with the woman for two weeks and left five days before the crime. The stuffed dog, who claims to the name “Edward”, is now under the custody of the WPD Petty Crimes Division.
Found in the crime scene were Spongebob paraphernalia, an old raggedy shirt with the name “Lawrence KS” printed on it, and an old Linux laptop computer. Experts from the Digital Forensics Lab are still unable to gain access to the computer system where key evidence leading to the woman’s identity are believed to be located.

Fatima Lasay, Quezon City
Friday September 19, 2014

Prayer Before Hanging


Here, the light has a different cast, it is deep, a struggler through the buildings and the smog of the city, it is easily forgotten amidst electric lights, and while this world is not unfamiliar to me (your name), its rare natural light is a recent discovery, a silent but faithful companion in my little bedroom, a room less crowded now although still quite full of things that do not belong to me, not at all like the room I had when I was young, yet this room still imparts that familiar feeling of safety, comfort, peaceful solitude, a setting most conducive to introspection, especially now it is the final day of my pilgrimage, yes, the mental hell of (your pain) has finally broken me, of so many years where laughter was rare and tears as common as tropical rain, and for so long I kept everything together, I knew how to pick up the pieces, until finally, I am too tired (Timor mortis conturbat me) Now I smile and wonder why the light is so beautiful, I remember in my sadness I would always look out the window to catch a glimpse of the light, the sky, which calmed me, which brought my raging heart to stillness, then I would wonder if the scars around my neck would never disappear, or would they deepen and deepen, and I would pray for God to make me new again, yes, new! like on the day that I was born, unhurt and undefiled, oh how beautiful the light when one has been in darkness too long! … (Libera me, lumen) oh light, oh beautiful light, please touch every surface of the skin on my body, please wake me from this bottomless sleep, where my feet has never touched the ground and my limbs are numb of hanging, please, oh gentle light, follow me through the night I dread, and touch me, oh light, oh miraculous light, when I tremble in fear and madness, but be kind, please, for I am lonely, my friends (their names) have abandoned me in my sorrow, and they return only for the food served at the wake where I sleep, where I could hear the sound of their laughter, but the touch of you, oh heavenly light, dispels the anger and despair, see there is a string of gold that holds my head towards the sky, and as it tightens, I could feel the weight of my body rising, lifting, until I hover above the cloud that has cluttered my days with grief, and for a moment I could smell the stench of things, bad things, leaving my body, and I could hear the cry of my mother, and I will cry with her, for this is when I finally awake from my misery, when I gladly embrace the light amen.

Fatima Lasay, Quezon City
Sunday, September 14, 2014

The guanyin cries please touch me not break me


Tonight I can declare with this my voice of experience that it is sad being the guanyin, for as you may slightly be aware of, I have been sitting it out and containing myself, at times unsuccessfully, with the old man, I have endured many years and yes I am still here, still alive, knowing that I have trawled the bottom of the pit, my tongue black with filth and my teeth red with blood, a guanyin by destiny, by grief, you see this old man has managed to cut and it hurts to keep trying to run away, and he has broken my face quite a number of times and consequently there is something a bit wrong with me, a very strange feeling in the head, breathing isn’t easy, writing is getting more difficult, thinking is such an ordeal and in the evenings I am not even sure if I am awake or asleep and dreaming, and last night the crying began again because my cunt hurts, oh god it hurts badly, and there were these things poking, molesting me, hard things, I don’t know if they are sticks or fists or fingers but I’m terrified of them, they just kept poking at me until I hurt and cry, until my cunt hurt so much that my legs feel numb, then in the morning I can just about make breakfast, but by noon my mind leaves again, and it is unsettling because I can see it, I can feel it, I can hear the chatty voices whenever my mind begins to walk away, but how glorious each time my mind returns, like a prodigal daughter, now, now, let me tell you how the guanyin goes about it, when the old man bangs his fist on my face I know that it is nothing personal, yes of course my face breaks after a while but the old fellow is more broken and so I should be more considerate, and it’s not even as if I can’t do something about it, I let him bang for a while until he is tired, then I can take his hand and put it on my breasts, but it will not happen overnight or in the next several years because his hand is just too stiff and heavy and insensitive, a hand for banging faces, but I must guide his hand, his fingers, to help him learn, to feel that my body is not just bones that can be cracked, but above the bone is flesh and upon it is skin, so I use my hand to guide one of his fingers, it is so heavy that it hurts but I shouldn’t mind, I must be patient, to lead his fingers upon the skin and count with him the stars in my breasts, feel their shapes, ponder their sizes, their constellations, trace where they are rooted and follow their paths to my sides, armpits and in the spaces between the ribs, deep behind the nipples, and I ask, always carefully, if he could feel, and he answers not a yes but a kind of un-hum, hum or hmm, and often such lessons are forgotten and the cycle begins again, please touch me not break me, and so I hope you can understand why I am rather sad, why I flinch, why I look so famished, so gangly, why I am difficult, confused, and why after so long I feel lonely, I miss a bit of conversation that threatens not to break my face, yet you left me after you’ve had your fun, which isn’t nice, but — for now I carry on, guanyin de fuckto, it is nothing personal.

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
Thursday, September 4, 2014